Vayetze 5775: Poverty, Race, and Thanksgiving

And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted his voice and wept (Gen. 29:11, R. Alter trans.). Why is Jacob crying? The simplest explanation would seem to be relief. After fleeing in terror from his enraged brother, experiencing strange visions in the night, and vowing anxiously to repay God if he ever makes it home, Jacob has arrived empty-handed at a well. And who is the first person he meets? His cousin Rachel. He has found the only family in the world that can be expected to give him refuge, and so he weeps with relief.

Or, in the words of Rabbi David Kimhi, commenting on Jeremiah 31:8, Jacob’s tears are tears of joy. So too when he reunites with Esau and is warmly embraced, Jacob will again weep with joy. Jeremiah predicts a future return of exiles to the land, and they too will weep with joy at their reversal of fortune.

But not all traditions read Jacob’s tears as joyous. Midrash Bereshit Rabba (70:11) offers three sad explanations for his weeping. The most far-fetched of them imagines Jacob mourning—he sees Rachel and prophesies all the way to the end of their lives, knowing that they will marry, but that Rachel will not be buried with him. A second possibility is that Jacob weeps out of shame that the locals will judge him for marrying his first cousin—and also her sister—since the local people were “careful about incest.”

However, the first and most compelling midrashic explanation connects to Jacob’s sudden awareness that he is empty-handed. He recalls that when his grandfather Abraham sent a servant to find a wife for Isaac, he arrived laden with precious gifts. Until now Jacob has been intent merely on survival, but now that he is alive and in the presence of Rachel, he becomes painfully aware of his poverty.

Rashi summarizes these Midrashim and adds a final flourish—for the poor is considered as dead, והעני חשוב כמת. This shocking idea is not Rashi’s invention. In Exodus 4:19 Moses is told that he can return safely to Egypt, for the people who threatened his life were “dead.” In the Bavli, Avodah Zara 5a and in later Midrashim, these people are identified as the characters Datan and Aviram. Of course, they are not really dead—they will yet harass Moses in the wilderness—but they have lost their wealth, and are thus considered to be dead.

In a very different context, Deuteronomy 24:15 warns an employer not to delay payment to a poor laborer, “for he is needy, and urgently needs it.” Rabbeinu Bahya says that by denying wages, the employer impoverishes the laborer, and “the poor are like dead.”

Surely this is an exaggeration? Surely not. The struggles of people who are truly destitute are indeed beyond the understanding of those who do not experience chronic poverty. Sometimes poor people indeed feel that they are considered to be already dead by the larger society. Add to poverty additional factors such as race or illegal immigrant status (or both), and you get a separate society burdened by despair, an underclass that feels shamed and despised, while the prosperous society feels threatened and defensive in their presence.

This insight is one way to approach the ongoing horror of inequality in the United States of America. We are properly focused on the case of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO, but this tragedy reflects a much broader narrative. I am not jumping on the bandwagon of criticism of the grand jury that failed to issue an indictment—I didn’t hear the evidence, and I can’t be sure what legal action the facts of this specific case demanded. But it is certainly a problem that so many black men are incarcerated in this country, an additional horror that so many are killed by law enforcement officers. Just last week it happened again here in NYC: an apparently accidental shooting by a rookie cop of another young black man in a housing project stairwell. Once again, there seem to be no legal consequences for the shooter. There is a sense that the poor—and especially poor people of color—are considered by the broader society to be “like dead.”

When Jacob stands by the well weeping, our Sages see him as a poor man, knowing the shame of having to beg for food and lodging, realizing that his future is in the hands of other people who have greater social status and material resources. Perhaps we can see Jacob as a frightened and frightening young man—thrown out of home, threatened in his family, alone and deeply afraid. He is physically strong, but this does not win him friends. True, he has received divine reassurance, but he will have to hear it again and again and will never truly feel secure. After his wonderful dream he still wakes up afraid, and in the prophets, the theme of “don’t be afraid, Jacob” is a frequent trope (e.g. Isa. 44:2; Jer. 30:10, 46:27-28). Jacob has been injured, and it will not be easy for him to become truly secure and at home.

America too has a long and destructive history with many of its people—especially with African Americans for whom this land was first a land of enslavement, not a land of opportunity. We need to change the narrative of the most marginalized groups from despair to opportunity, from a life that is like death, to one that is dignified and a pleasure to live. There are no simple solutions—no executive orders or rallies that will build a sense of partnership and trust in our society. Not even the election of an African American president can transform the life narratives of millions. What is required is local and repetitive—for diverse citizens to meet each other face to face, to express concern for the sorrows and indignities of others, and to use our resources to build a society where a young man in danger can find refuge, support, and the resources to build a good life. That, when it happens, is a true cause for Thanksgiving.